


move

by flimsy



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-11
Updated: 2012-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-03 11:54:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flimsy/pseuds/flimsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can feel the engine hum, a steady sound vibrating through his vertebrae, making him all tingly and warm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	move

It’s as if Ryan can feel the road move beneath him, rolling and rolling away under his feet and he’s not even moving himself at all. He can feel the engine hum, a steady sound vibrating through his vertebrae, making him all tingly and warm. Iowa is passing by, blurrily, and it could be just any other state because all they get to see are identical towns and sometimes rest stops when they (Brendon) can’t stand being in the bus any longer.

Ryan puts his fingers against the window for a second, the glass cool and smooth to the touch, and then stretches until his toes start hurting, arms above his head, back cracking, legs up on the bench, yawning because he just sat here for too damn long.

It’s not surprising that Brendon chooses this exact moment to enter the lounge; Ryan sees him from the corner of his eye and then squints because everything is kind of blurry from yawning. He rolls his shoulders once more and then tucks up his legs, not because he wants Brendon to sit next to him (maybe that, too) but because he knows Brendon will make room for himself anyway. 

“I wish we’d stop,” Brendon says as if it’s the most normal greeting in the world and flops down at the table next to Ryan. His hair is tousled, spiky in a not-good-because-not-intentional kind of way and his glasses are a little askew. Ryan grins a little and reaches out to straighten them, but then lets his hand drop again because Brendon looks too funny and, really, savour the moment, Ross.

Brendon sighs and then sags to the side, all his weight suddenly against Ryan’s knees and Ryan _oofs_ and reaches over to ruffle his hair. 

“So tired,” Brendon whines. “I _need_ fresh air. I need to _do_ something.” Brendon rubs his eyes and his glasses skid down his nose, until he pushes them back, yawning, face scrunching up.

Ryan shifts a little, reaches over to his pen and taps it against his writing pad. Maybe he will write a song about grimaces. Maybe about people in buses and about being locked in and moving when you’re not and. He puts his pen down again, hard, and Brendon gives him a questioning look, puts his hands on Ryan’s knees and rubs circles up and down his thighs, his knees, eyes soft. 

Maybe he’s right, Ryan thinks. Maybe they should really stop for a while somewhere, only an hour or so. Get out and walk and eat cheap diner food instead of cheap instant food. Maybe they’ll be lucky and _somewhere_ is a place where no one knows them and everyone just thinks they’re a bunch of eyeliner-and-girlpants-wearing kids on a road trip. But then he has to think of the schedule, the fucking _schedule_ , and no, really, they cannot stop with a show tonight and another two-fucking-hundred miles ahead of them. 

“My legs are going to fall off if I don’t get to move soon,” Brendon says seriously after a moment, eyes still intently fixed on Ryan’s face. 

“Walk from the back to the front twice, then you’ll be okay,” Ryan answers and snatches his pen from the table once more. 

“That doesn’t count as moving, Ross,” Brendon mumbles against the fabric of Ryan’s jeans, face suddenly pressed against the juncture where his knees meet. 

Ryan rubs his eyes. “Hey,” he says after a moment in which Brendon has snuck his arms around Ryan’s knees and is hanging onto him, nearly falling off the bench so all Ryan can see are spikes of dark hair behind his knees. 

“We’re moving, you know,” he continues when Brendon doesn’t answer, just seems to listen quietly for once. “I mean, here, like, I like sitting here because – it’s my favourite spot in the bus because I can feel the engine and everything and−” Ryan stops because suddenly he feels ridiculous. 

But Brendon doesn’t mock him, just starts singing low against his knees, some tune or another, nearly soundless but strong in bass so Ryan can feel the vibrations passing through his bones. He closes his eyes, slides down a little, shifts, until Brendon is lying half on top of him, their legs entangled, Brendon humming against his tummy, his breath warm and moist where Ryan’s t-shirt has ridden up. 

Beneath them the engine is roaring, and will for another two hundred miles.


End file.
